Living with Hamish Holmes
by daleksanddetectives
Summary: A series of one shots and ficlets partner to my "Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective and Father of One" series showing what the trio gets up to when they're not chasing down criminals or solving mysteries.
1. When I grow up

Summary: Hamish decides he wants to follow in a certain someone's footsteps.

Age 9

* * *

"I've decided what I want to be when I grow up," Hamish says, yawning into his cereal.

"And what's that? Nothing too dull I hope," Sherlock mumbles sleepily from the sofa.

John shoots him a dark glare.

"Nope," Hamish smiles, unoffended, "I want to be a doctor. Like you, John."

A fond smile spreads across John's face, "a medical doctor? What would you like to specialise in?"

Hamish shrugs, "haven't decided yet. I've got plenty of time to try stuff out and choose though."

"Are you sure?" John sits opposite Hamish, "it takes a long time to become a doctor, a lot of hard work. I can give you a hand with it if you like; find some good books and journals? And I'm sure when you're a bit older Sherlock will help you with some dissections, or ask Molly nicely if she'll show you around the morgue properly, without your dad whinging about how everything is wrong."

Hamish nods enthusiastically, "thank you, I have lots of time though. I want to be a doctor because I want to help people like you do."

"Would you rather not become the world's second consulting detective?" Sherlock asks, "you're getting better with your deductions."

Hamish sticks his tongue out, "maybe I could be both. 'Hamish Sherrinford Holmes-Watson, consulting detective doctor extraordinaire'," he grins, holding his hands up as if seeing his name on a billboard.

John blushes at his use of his own surname, marriage was something they had never considered, having been together a very short time, and until that topic came up the idea of changing Hamish's name was out of the question. He glances at Sherlock, checking if he too heard the slip up. _He did_, John thinks, seeing Sherlock looking between them. When he catches John's eye, his expression softens and something sparks in his eye.

"Holmes-Watson, you say? I much prefer the sound of Watson-Holmes." He smirks.

Hamish's eyes widen, and it's his turn to blush.

John decides to play along, folding his arms and leaning forward on the table, "hm, yes, I agree. Watson-Holmes does have a nice ring to it."

Hamish looks between the two men before leaping to his feet, "would you look at the time? I'm going to be late for school."

He scoops up his backpack and almost runs from the room, very closely tripping over his shoelace and bag.

"Get back here, Hamish," Sherlock says in his best 'concerned father' voice, trying to keep the smile from his face.

"No!" He shouts from the front door.

It slams shut as Sherlock and John dissolve into giggles.


	2. Sixth of January

Summary: Sherlock can be a bit of a grouch on his birthday, until he finds he can use the "it's my birthday I'll do what I want" card to his advantage

Age 9

* * *

"Wakey wakey, Sherlock!"

Sherlock cracks open his eyes and is suddenly aware of a weight on his upper thighs. He sees John still in his pyjamas, straddling the backs of his legs. He watches a grin spread across John's face and silently pulls the pillow closer.

"Come on, wake up," John squeezes Sherlock's waist encouragingly.

A muffled, "nooo" escapes the pillow.

"You know what day it is," John singsongs.

"Exactly why I would like to go back to sleep until tomorrow."

John smiles fondly, tracing small shapes on Sherlock's nude back, "please? Hamish is excited." Quiet footsteps begin to descend from the upstairs bedroom, "speak of the devil," he smirks.

Sherlock groans and buries his face further into the pillow. Hamish shyly knocks on the door twice and John folds his arms and leans back, "come in."

Hamish stands sheepishly at the door, still wearing his pyjamas. He steps into the room and stands by the side of the bed.

"Is he awake yet?" He whispers.

"Unfortunately," Sherlock mumbles from the pillow.

Hamish grins and leaps onto the bed and sits cross legged beside them.

Sherlock grunts and turns over. John raises himself up to move to the side, but Sherlock grips his thighs and says, "if I have to be awake now, you're staying there."

John rolls his eyes and sits back on Sherlock's thighs as Hamish shuffles closer.

He produces two brightly coloured envelopes from under his pyjama top and smiles, "happy birthday, dad."

Sherlock takes them and opens the first one, 'Dad' scrawled across the front. The card is the usual 'happy birthday' you find in Tesco or ASDA, but when he opens it a piece of paper falls out. Sherlock picks it up to read;

_This voucher allows Sherlock Holmes to use St. Bartholomew's morgue for three (3) hours and the lab for four (4) hours on a day of his choosing for experimentation, data collection and analysis._

_Signed, Molly Hooper & Hamish Holmes_

"I talked to Miss Hooper, she said you could have three hours in the morgue as long as you don't mess anything up," Hamish says.

"Thank you," Sherlock rereads the note, written and signed with Molly's loopy writing, 'Sherlock Holmes' in Hamish's scrawl, "I'm sure this will come in very useful."

Hamish looks to John and puffs his chest up with pride.

The second envelope, coloured obnoxiously yellow, reads 'Sherlock' in John's familiar spidery writing. Sherlock tries to angle the card away from Hamish, to avoid him reading the rude joke. Out of this card falls a folded piece of A4 paper. He opens it to find a reservation for three at his favourite restaurant.

"For tonight," John elaborates, "the three of us are going out for a meal whether you like it or not. My treat."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock awkwardly sits up to press a gentle kiss to John's lips.

Hamish makes a choking noise in the back of his throat, "gross."

"Why don't you go grab first shower, Hamish," John smiles, "while I try to get this lump out of bed."

Hamish giggles and climbs off the bed, shuffling into the bathroom adjoining Sherlock and John's bedroom. He shuts the door firmly and the shower powers on.

John picks up the cards and leans over to place them on the bedside table, which Sherlock takes as an opportunity to nuzzle up into his chest and letting his hands wander under John's t shirt.

"Oi," John warns, settling down on Sherlock's chest and resting his cheek on folded arms.

Sherlock doesn't stop, his hands mapping John's back, "I've not been treated like this on my birthday for a long time, does this also mean I'll be entitled to birthday sex?"

"I am not getting off with you when your son is in the next room over," John says, swatting Sherlock's hands away, "even if it is your birthday."

Sherlock frowns, "how about a birthday snog then?"

"I suppose that would be okay," John smirks, leaning forward to nibble on Sherlock's lower lip, "for now."

Sherlock snakes his arms around John's back again and lets himself be kissed for a few moments, but as soon as he has the opportunity, he flips them and ends up situated in between John's legs.

"That's not playing fair."

"I never play fair."

Sherlock ducks his head and gets back to kissing John, not wanting to waste a moment.

John eventually hears the shower cut off and pulls away. Sherlock tries to follow, but John playfully smacks his backside and says, "wait till I give you your proper present. Now, off."

"Could this 'proper' present as you put it have anything to do with me, you and this bed?" Sherlock says hopefully.

"Possibly," John winks and steals a quick kiss, before pushing on Sherlock's shoulders to sit up and begin to shuffle off the bed, "Hamish wanted to cook you breakfast as a treat. I need to oversee it in case he inherited your talent to set everything on fire. Go find your t shirt and dressing gown."

"I don't set _everything_ on fire," Sherlock pouts.

"Yes you do," John calls back from the hallway.

Hamish's cooking goes ahead without a hitch, not even getting one speck of grease on his school uniform. John had mixed up some batter for pancakes and Hamish had cooked and served them up. Sherlock pads into the kitchen to find a plate full of pancakes and a large mug of coffee awaiting him. He sits in his designated spot and allows himself to be waited upon by the nine year old, devouring five large pancakes, all drowning in unhealthy amounts of syrup.

Hamish and John also eat their fill, each armed with a mug of tea and choosing jam over syrup as a topping. John shoos Hamish away to get ready for school when he begins to clean up the kitchen.

Hamish reappears with his tie neatly done up and his backpack thrown over one shoulder.

"Do you have enough money for lunch?" Sherlock asks over his mug, warily eyeing the pile of post on the table.

"Yep! Bye dad, you can have your present later," Hamish cheekily ruffles Sherlock's hair, and nimbly jumps backwards when he swats at him, "bye John."

John waves from the counter as Hamish goes to trot down the stairs, most likely stopping to say hello to Mrs Hudson on his way out.

For the next half an hour Sherlock sits at the table, sipping his coffee and opening the numerous cards that had come in the post.

"Dull."

"Obvious."

"Have they no imagination?"

"I weep for the intelligence of my extended family."

John chuckles at every comment while he washes and dries the dishes.

There is silence for a few moments until silently makes his way to behind John and rests a hand on John's hip to purr into his ear, "could I have my present now?"

John carefully places the dish cloth back into the sink and whirls around, trapping Sherlock between himself and the table. He kisses him deeply and drops his hands to Sherlock's bum.

"Legs around my waist," he mumbles.

Sherlock quickly complies, allowing John to lift him with ease and carry him through to their bedroom. He deposits Sherlock on the bed and kicks the door shut, rushing back to give Sherlock his 'birthday present'.


	3. First (part 1)

Summary: A seventeen year old Hamish breaks up with his first girlfriend, luckily John is there to give some advice.

Age 17

* * *

John comes home to a tightly wrapped bundle curled in on itself on the sofa.

_Sherlock? Or Hamish?_ He thinks. _Judging by the size, Hamish._

He drops his shopping bags on the kitchen table and sits beside the blanket cocoon. He rests a hand where he assumes the occupants hip is, "hey," he says, "you alright?"

A face emerges from the lump, Hamish's eyes have dark shadows around them, "what?"

"You're not getting ill, are you?" John asks, suddenly concerned at the boy's paleness.

Hamish sniffs, "no."

"Then, you want to tell me what's wrong?"

Hamish sits up, taking the blanket with him, and perches on the edge of the sofa, "well," he starts, "you know that girl I was seeing? Jackie."

John nods.

"She broke up with me this morning."

John just manages to keep his surprise silent, instead nodding for Hamish to continue.

"She did it this morning, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get a reason from her. Apparently she just didn't 'feel it' anymore." Hamish pouts.

"Well, some people just don't completely click, you know," John says, "maybe in the future, she'll change her mind and ask you out again?" He suggests, "happens quite a lot."

"I suppose." Hamish pulls the blanket around himself a little tighter for security.

"Is there anyone else? For either of you? Or are you both happily single for now?"

Hamish thinks for a moment, "I don't know, there was this guy she's been friendly with recently, but I don't want to accuse her of anything."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

John nods.

Hamish thinks again, "there is this boy, in Biology," he says slowly, "we get partnered together a lot, and he acts like he's interested in me," Hamish pauses, putting the pieces together, "I mean, he's attractive, yeah, but, I don't know. I never really took notice because of Jackie."

"Well Hamish, it might seem a bit quick, but why don't you ask him? The worst he could say to you is no."

Hamish nods, pushing his blanket down from his head, revealing unruly curls similar to Sherlock's on a bored day, "I think I might."

"What's his name?" John says, smiling.

Hamish grins back, "Toby."


	4. First (part 2)

Summary: Hamish brings home his new "friend" for the first time to meet his father and John.

Age 17

* * *

"Hi, John. Bye, John," Hamish says heading straight for the stairs up to his bedroom, tugging his school bag higher on his shoulder.

John blinks at the whirlwind passing the kitchen and puts down his newspaper, watching Hamish stride along the passage, a smaller blonde boy in tow.

John looks between them and shouts, "Hamish? Who's this?"

"Friend," he smiles, "we have to do partnered work for Biology."

John nods and the two boys scurry up the stairs, and when John hears Hamish's bedroom door shut, and he pulls out his phone firing a text off to Hamish; Studying? Oldest lie in the book. I saw how you were looking at each other. What do you want for dinner? Would your 'friend' like to stay? JW

John waits ten minutes for a reply, and when one doesn't come he lets his curiosity about Hamish's friend get the better of him. He carefully climbs the stairs and knocks on the closed door. He hears urgent scrambling and then a loud, "come in!"

Hamish sits wide eyed on his bed, his hair a mess, obviously having just pulled on his t shirt.

"Everything alright? You didn't reply to my text," John leans against the doorframe. He glances down at the floor, "isn't that your friend's shirt? Is he okay?"

Hamish swallows and purses his lips in thought, "that's my shirt," he lies, "from yesterday."

John raises his eyebrows, "you were wearing a _Killers_ shirt yesterday. And last I knew you didn't even like," he cocks his head to read the text, "_Rammstein._"

Hamish glares at the ground.

"Where's your friend? You didn't hide him in a cupboard or out the window when you heard me did you?" John smiles.

"No," Hamish tuts, nodding towards the other door in his room, "he's in the loo, and his name is Toby. Where's dad today anyway? I haven't seen him."

"No idea, he took off this morning shouting something about cats and jewellery and I haven't heard from him since. You know what he's like."

A small smile creeps onto Hamish's face, "could you not tell dad just yet?" He asks, fiddling with the bed sheet, "about Toby. I know you've worked it out."

John sighs, "okay. You're 17 now; I can't stop you, but be careful, alright? Sherlock'll probably work it out as soon as he sets eyes on you anyway."

Hamish rolls onto his back, "urgh I know. But just for now, I need to warn Toby about dad and I'll introduce them to each other soon."

"If you're really that serious about him, maybe we should get you a lock for your door to avoid any mishaps," John winks.

"John!" Hamish sits up quickly, flushing red.

John snickers, "joking. But you are getting older now, so," he trails off, leaving the discussion open for another time.

Hamish grumbles, "I suppose. What did you want anyway? You didn't come up here just to spy on us did you?"

"No, I'm ordering pizza for dinner. Is your friend- sorry, Toby, staying?" Hamish nods and John continues, "I'll let you know when it's here."

John pulls the door closed and Hamish hears his footsteps descending the stairs. Toby pokes his head around the bathroom door, Hamish motions with his head that he can come out.

"You know, your dad doesn't sound as bad as you make him out to be," he says, sitting beside Hamish and stretching.

Hamish raises his eyebrows, "that wasn't my dad. That's John. Dad's boyfriend, or flatmate, partner, or whatever they call each other. Apparently you're invited to stay for dinner." When Toby gives him a look, he continues, "John worked it out."

"And he's fine with it?"

Hamish leans into Toby's personal space, "yep," he says, popping the 'p' sound.

Toby grins and closes the space between them, gently pressing his lips against Hamish's.

Half an hour (and lots of kisses) later, and John is calling the teenagers down for dinner.

He is armed with three pizza boxes, and spreads them out on the table after removing the chemistry equipment. He smiles at them both when they arrive, "get yourselves plates and dig in."

They take a few slices each and sit next to each other on the dining chairs.

After a few moments of silence, the front door opens and clicks shut, confident steps taking the stairs two at a time.

"You texted him," Hamish hisses at John.

John looks offended, "not this time kiddo, he's like a stray cat, you never know when he'll be home."

Hamish sighs and leans over to Toby and whispers, "this is him."

When Sherlock enters the room Hamish speaks immediately, "dad, this is Toby." He pauses at looks between the others, "my boyfriend."

"I see," Sherlock says, shrugging off his coat and throwing it over the back on John's chair.

"Toby, this is Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective and my father."

Toby smiles and bobs his head.

"How long?" Sherlock demands, taking a pizza crust from Hamish's plate and popping it in his mouth.

"A week," Hamish says, "though I wasn't sure if it would be safe to bring him home or not, even after the warnings I gave him."

Sherlock nods, muttering something that sounds like _should have brought those ears home_ under his breath, "isn't Molly's cat named-" he's cut off by John playfully slapping his arm and sitting opposite Hamish, "so, Toby," John starts, "as it seems as though we're going to be seeing you here a lot more often, tell us a bit about yourself."

**A few months later:**

Hamish and Toby are sat together on the sofa when John and Sherlock return from a case. Toby is sat properly with Hamish half on his lap, legs thrown over his thighs and snuggled into his side. Toby has one arm wrapped around Hamish's waist and is reading a book, which John recognises as the book Hamish had been reading when he'd first gone to look at the flat, _almost ten years ago_, he thinks.

"Nice of you two to come home last night," Hamish grumps, "where've you been?"

"Case," John yawns, kicking off his shoes, "stayed at Greg's, was easier."

"You'd think you were the father here," Sherlock sits on the sofa beside them while John hangs up their coats, "you know, ever since you got a boyfriend you've become a lot grumpier and five times more sarcastic."

"Yeah well ever since you got a boyfriend-" Hamish snaps, but cuts himself off, unable to think of an insult. Instead he narrows his eyes and sighs, settling with whispering "happier."

He looks up at his father through his eyelashes, trying to avoid direct eye contact. He sees a smile cross Sherlock's face.

"I'm suddenly reminded of the nine year old who tugged on my shirt and begged for John to stay, so you have mostly yourself to thank that."

Hamish grins, "I didn't make you kiss him though. I knew exactly what you were up to when you got home from Angelo's."

Sherlock smiles again, "brat."

"Freak," Hamish retaliates.

"Alright boys, less name calling please," John sighs from the doorway, "we're ordering Indian for dinner, are you staying Toby?"

"If it's okay with you," he smiles, "I'll text my mum to let her know."

John nods and leaves in search of the takeaway menus, while Toby pulls out his phone, ignoring the almost-telepathic conversation going on between Hamish and Sherlock. When he's done he picks up his discarded book and rearranges himself comfortably around Hamish's form.

Seemingly concluding their conversation, Sherlock smirks and stands to leave, ruffling Hamish's hair on his way. He narrowly dodges Hamish's half-hearted kick.

"Oi, pass the remote before you leave, lanky git," Hamish shouts, settling back into Toby's chest.

He sees Sherlock smirk as he picks the remote up and throws it at the sofa. John snorts from the kitchen, "like you can talk Hamish, you're taller than me now, you skinny streak of nothing."

Hamish takes the remote and switches on the television. After a moment of watching Sherlock following John around the kitchen, Hamish realises Toby hasn't read a page of his book in quite a while.

"What's wrong?" He asks, rubbing his nose against the other boy's chin.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," Hamish glances a look into the kitchen, seeing John berating Sherlock for stealing his mug of tea, "we fight quite a lot," he continues with a whisper, "it's okay in the end though. We're too alike, dad and I, and we've always had our tiffs, but we always make up in the end." Hamish leans back and smiles up at Toby, "and John is a good referee, although he has trouble stopping us when we start arguing in other languages. Maybe that can be your job; you took French and German at GCSE, didn't you?"

Toby tsks and pulls Hamish closer to his chest, throwing his book on the floor and focusing on the tv.


	5. Bully

Summary: Hamish gets in a fight with a bully.

Age 13

* * *

Hamish tries to tip toe into the flat and up to his room as quietly as he can. He avoids slamming the front door, misses the creaky step and is halfway up the final flight of stairs when Sherlock clears his throat from the living room door. John is standing behind him, 'concerned parent' almost written across his face.

"Why are you late home?" Sherlock demands, folding his arms.

"Um," Hamish pauses, "a lot of the trains were off, so I decided to walk home."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, "the truth."

Hamish chews his lip, "I stayed back at school to help with some stuff?"

"_Hamish_."

He groans and hoists his backpack higher onto his shoulder, "he was asking for it."

"Asking for what?"

He grumbles and holds up his hand, palm facing inwards, revealing cuts and bruises and dried blood.

John clicks his fingers at the armchair, "sit. I'm cleaning that up and then you're going to tell us what happened."

Hamish bushes past Sherlock and trudges to the chair while John fetches his medical kit. He throws his bag to the floor and slouches, hanging his hand over the arm of the chair. Sherlock perches opposite him and stares. Hamish groans.

"Don't even start," he grumbles sliding further down the chair.

Sherlock tucks his hands under his chin, "I wasn't going to say anything. I can already see that you let your pride get the best of you. Again. What was it this time?"

John returns to see Hamish roll his eyes. He crouches beside the chair and opens his kit. He takes out the necessary and begins cleaning up Hamish's hand.

"Just tell us what happened," John says, applying antiseptic cream and plasters, "we'd rather hear it from you than from your head teacher."

Hamish purses his lips and toes his shoes off, buying time.

"Like I said, he was asking for it."

"So a kid in your class came up to and asked you to punch him?" John scoffs, "I'll believe that when I see it."

"I was leaving school and this older kid was shouting at another kid. I recognised him from one of my classes and we've talked a few times. I went and asked him what he thought he was doing picking on someone younger than him and he hit me, so I hit back. I turned out to be the better fighter and he legged it. End of story."

John sighs, "anything else? Or was it just your hand?"

Hamish shuffles uncomfortably, "he was a lot bigger than me and knocked me over. I grazed my head." He lifts his fringe to reveal an angry looking graze close to his temple.

John sighs and finds the cream again. Hamish winces when he rubs it on, "it stings," he complains.

"Then don't pick fights with bullies. Keep your hair off that." John picks up his things and takes them to the bathroom to clean up.

Sherlock remains silent, not having moved or spoken a word during John's doctoring.

"You can tell me off now," Hamish grumbles, "ground me or whatever. It was my fault."

Sherlock raises his head, "you think I should ground you?"

"Well, yeah," Hamish frowns, "I beat a kid up and came home with a bloody hand and face. Isn't it what most parents would do if their son did that?"

"Most likely. Go on then, if you were the parent in this situation, what would your punishment be?"

"If this is some kind of trick-"

"No. Tell me."

"Fine," Hamish sighs and tucks his feet underneath himself, "I'd probably ground myself for a few weeks. Maybe take away my phone or games consoles. Something that would piss me off-"

"Language."

"-annoy me so I know not to do it again."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up.

"One week then. You barely go out anyway, so there isn't much point. You're thirteen; I doubt punishing you will do much to alter your behaviour now. But I or John will contact your school for giving you the idiotic idea that you felt you had to stand up for him."

"And get a teacher next time," John interjects, returning to the room. He perches on the arm of Sherlock's chair, "maybe I can teach you some self-defence if something like this happens in the future, and then you can look after yourself and then find someone older to help you." John smiles warmly.

"Fine," Hamish mumbles, cradling his hand.

John stands again, "go do whatever homework you have tonight while I start dinner. We're having roast, and Sherlock is going to help."

Sherlock pulls a face but drags himself into the kitchen, pausing to ruffle Hamish's hair. John shakes his head and follows after shooing Hamish up the stairs to his room.


	6. Interlude

Summary: John moves in.

Age 9

* * *

"Sherlock!" John stumbles on the top few steps of the staircase, almost dropping the large cardboard box. He looks up to see Hamish sat on the next flight of stairs, his small face peering in between the bannister poles, "would you forgive me if I killed him, Hamish?"

Hamish giggles and shuffles down a few steps, "I can help?"

"No, too heavy. This is the last one for now anyway, I just want him to know the threat is still there," John winks, making Hamish laugh again.

"Where is his majesty anyway?"

"Unpacking."

John turns and marches into the living room, growling, "Sherlock."

He finds the man in question rifling through one of John's boxes.

"I've barely got the last box through the door and you're already going through my stuff?"

He stretches out on the sofa and begins flicking through the pages of a recent medical journal. John sighs and throws himself into the armchair he'd claimed as his, Hamish opposite him in the more angular chair.

"Will you and dad be sharing a room?" Hamish shuffles the toes of his shoes, only just reaching the floor.

"You just want to stay in the bedroom upstairs, don't you?"

"Of course he does, John," Sherlock says, turning a page, "he 'called' it apparently. Would you be opposed to my room? Mrs Hudson will allow us to rent another if you want it."

"That depends doesn't it? Do you snore?"

Sherlock frowns at him, "do I _snore_?"

"Well? Answer the question or I'll go talk to Mrs Hudson."

"How can I know if I snore, John? I'm asleep when it happens—"

"He doesn't," Hamish cuts in, hugging his knees, "the last flat was small and my room was next to dad's. He doesn't snore."

"Thank you Hamish," John nods, "I suppose you will get to keep the big room upstairs then."

Hamish grins.


	7. The Return

Warnings for a little bit of angst.  
I realise I haven't actually written TRF yet, but I think we all know what happens. In this 'verse, Sherlock leaves more than just his ex army doctor behind.

Age: 12

* * *

Sherlock knew it would be easy to sneak back into 221b. John hadn't changed the locks in the time Sherlock had been 'dead'. He also hadn't fixed the bullet holes in the wall, and the yellow smiley face he'd spray painted in his throes of boredom years ago continued to look down on the room. Billy the skull now wears the old deerstalker, which Sherlock frowns at, until he sees a small framed photo of himself, John and Hamish taken shortly after they first met.

He almost doesn't hear the front door open and close, only realising he isn't alone when he hears soft footfalls on the stairs.

"Is that you John?" An almost familiar voice calls.

Sherlock turns to see Hamish frozen in the doorway, now twelve years old. Sherlock feels his throat tighten at the sight of Hamish; he'd gotten so much bigger in the time he'd been away. What had been a scrawny nine year old, had become a strong twelve year old, already filling out and losing the childishness of his face. Sherlock suddenly realises how much he's missed. He missed celebrating his son's birthdays, finishing primary school, getting his SAT scores, sending him off to secondary school. He can't help but notice he's still small for his age, but has perfect posture and piercing eyes that remind Sherlock of his own.

"Dad? Are you a ghost?" Hamish's satchel falls from his shoulder, landing with a quiet thump.

Sherlock smiles sadly, Hamish's voice had started getting deeper, something else Sherlock had missed.

"Hamish, I—" he starts. He's interrupted by the twelve year old slapping his cheek and shouting.

"I _hate_ you. How could you?" Tears begin to roll down his cheeks, "how could you leave us? We were happy, dad. You, John and me. Was that not enough for you?"

"I can explain," Sherlock says calmly, rubbing his cheek.

"Don't bother," Hamish growls, "I don't want to see you again." The front door slams and Hamish turns on his heel and climbs the stairs as fast as he can, snatching up his bag and continuing to shout, "John, you might want to get rid of that piece of rubbish in the living room. I doubt you'll want it either."

"What are you talking about, Mish?" John calls back, slowly making his way up to the flat, "you best not have made a mess while I was out."

Hamish snorts loudly and throws his bedroom door shut, making sure the noise echoes through the flat.

"What's got into him," John mumbles to himself, pocketing his keys and trudging up the final few steps. At the sight of Sherlock, John lurches forward, dropping his bag of shopping by the door and curling his hands into fists.

"Please, no," Sherlock holds his hands up in surrender, "Hamish already slapped me."

To Sherlock's surprise, John stop and smiles sweetly, unfurling his hands and taking Sherlock's face in his hands, "is it really you, Sherlock? You're alive?"

Sherlock nods quickly, hoping for a less extreme reaction.

"Right," John says, before standing on his tiptoes and head-butting Sherlock's nose, making him stumble backwards.

"_John_?"

"You complete and utter cock," he snarls.

"John, I—"

"No, Sherlock. You have no right to just waltz back in here. You didn't even let Hamish, your own son, know you were alive?" He paces in front of Sherlock, "he's been so good. He dealt with your death so well and now you go and do this. The last time I saw him cry was after your funeral, and now he's up in his room sobbing."

Sherlock focuses his eyes on the floor, ignoring the throbbing in his nose, "I can explain."

"No. Leave. I can't even look at you right now," he sighs, "I can't decide if I want to hug you or punch you, so you'd best go before I decide. If you're going to ask to be part of our lives again, which I know you're about to, you're going to have to let Hamish adjust; he's the one who spent the last three years believing his _father_ had died. I'm his legal carer now, and I don't want you anywhere near him at the moment."

Sherlock's shoulders slump, "I still have my phone. It's the same number. Text me when you're ready."

"_If_," John folds his arms, "if we decide we want you back."

Sherlock's raises his eyes once, taking in John's stern expression, and nods, starting to walk towards the stairs.

John waits until he hears the latch drop before going up to Hamish's room.

He knocks on the door gently, "hey, you okay? Can I come in?"

He hears a sniffle and a quiet, "yeah."

John opens the door and sees Hamish sat cross-legged on his bed, the sleeves of his jumper damp from where he'd quickly wiped his eyes.

"Is he gone?"

"Yeah," John sits beside him, wrapping an arm around the small boy's shoulders, "I told him that he isn't allowed back here for now."

Hamish leans into John, "I don't want him to come back. We buried him. How could he do this to us?"

John makes a soothing sound and pulls Hamish into a hug, which the boy melts into, finally letting himself cry properly into John's jumper. John gently strokes Hamish's hair and waits for him to calm down. He presses his nose against Hamish's temple, encouraging deep breaths.

"I have to ask you, Hamish. Do you want to see him again? You don't have to say yes, and you can take your time to answer," John soothes.

Hamish sniffs, "I do want to see him. I'm happy he's not dead, but I'm angry and I'm afraid I might hit him again. Or kick him, whichever part of him I can reach."

John laughs, "get in line kiddo."

"Can I watch when you hit him this time?"

John squeezes Hamish's shoulder again, "like I'd let you miss that."

"Are you going to see him?" Hamish asks after a moment.

"I have to," John sighs, "I'd rather not, but he said he had a reason for leaving us and I'd like to know. I'll probably meet him somewhere neutral, in a café or somewhere, if you want to come."

"I want to know too. I'd like that."

John smiles, "we'll sort it out. What he did was horrible, and I may not be able to control the direction of my fist next time I see him, but no one gets second chances like this, Mish. "

"I guess," Hamish shrugs.

"I'll talk to him," John rubs Hamish's shoulder, the small boy leaning in close again and wrapping his arms around John's waist.

* * *

Part one of Sherlock's return, to be continued in part two; The Reunion.


End file.
